


Some Day I May Be Higher

by january_emberss



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Historical Newsies, It's honestly just his historical speech but fleshed out, OOC Kid Blink, OOC Racetrack, Other, couple of lowkey curse words in there, just good old fashioned strike stuff, no musical or movie or ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 11:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13270449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/january_emberss/pseuds/january_emberss
Summary: Race Track Higgins makes a speech.





	Some Day I May Be Higher

Race Track Higgins does not like talking in front of people.

Ok, selling papers was different. That was his job. And he wasn’t talking in front of people, per se. He was just reading the headlines.

And when he’s just chatting, that’s different, too. When he’s with the other newsboys and playing games and exchanging stories, that’s just friends talking.  
Giving a speech? Now that’s something different entirely.

How he even got up here, on the stage of the theatre, at the rally for the strike, about to make a speech, he had no idea. Before then, he had just made sure that everyone had some common sense. He would put his two cents in to Kid Blink and Dave about the strike, and somehow that turned into him talking in front of a whole crowd of boys and men.

It all started when the prices of the newspapers went up. Not to the general public, no, but to the newsies. You see, the newsies had to buy the papes from Pulitzer and Hearst, etc. And then they sold the papes to the public. And whatever papes they didn’t sell was lost money. Then one day, Pultizer and Hearst, the greedy, capitalist bastards, upped the price of papers to the newsies. ‘Cause they thought that if the newsies had to pay more, they would sell more to make up for the money. Well, the newsies weren’t dumb. They knew exactly what was happening, and a couple of them, Kid Blink and Dave Simmons in Manhattan, weren’t gonna stand for that sort of nonsense. And that’s why, on the day of July 21st, 1899, the newsies of Lower Manhattan went on strike.

It’s been three days since the strike started. That made it July 24th. But today was different. Today was different because, well, because of Racetrack. You see, Racetrack was the unofficial official leader of the Brooklyn newsies. And if the Brooklyn newsies backed the Manhattan newsies, well, then the newsies might actually win. Because the Manhattan newsies needed the backing of other newsies from over New York to even stand a chance. Hence why everyone was here, in this theatre, staring at Race Track, waiting for him to convince them why this strike was worth it.

Race Track stared out at the sea of kids. He saw the expectant faces of some of his Brooklyn kids, the worried looks on some younger Manhattan faces, and the encouragement on the face of Kid Blink. Kid Blink was something else. When he set his mind to something, he was like a dog with a piece of meat. And right now, Kid Blink wanted the prices of the papers back to where they were.

Race Track gulped and started fiddling with his hands. He never considered himself smart, or charming like Kid Blink. Race Track just called it as he saw it. So he decided to start with that. What he saw. And what he saw was half of the faces of the boys he showed up with. The rest? Couldn’t even make it into the theatre.

“There’s…” Race Track started and cracked. He cleared his throat. “There’s 2,000 of us here from Brooklyn tonight, but I think most of the gang got shut out.”

He looked expectantly over the crowd. Crickets. He looked back at his hands and fiddled some more. “Never mind, though:” Might as well get to the point. “We’re with the New York boys and we’re going to stick with them to the end.”

Race Track secretly hoped that that was it. That’s all he would have to say. That is really all he had to say. Race Track hated beating around the bush. He should be able to just walk offstage after that, to the applause of all of the newsies, Joe and Bill raising a white flag in defeat, and him getting enough money to stay at the racetrack forever. But Race Track Higgins was a realist, and knew that he wasn’t going to get off that easy.

Race Track wished that he could just be at the racetrack right now.

Now there was something that he absolutely loved: the racetrack. Numbers and odds and probability: that’s where his heart lied. He loved watching the odds of the horses go up and down as different variables (the weather, the state of the track, what the horse ate that day, who the jockey was) changed and made the outcomes different. There was something calming about watching those beautiful animals pound the dirt with their impossibly long strides as they whirled around the track. And the feeling of predicting the right odds and outcomes, and receiving that small (or large) amount of money? Beats everything else in the world.

The racetrack was also something that Race Track could talk about easily: no matter who he was talking to. And, let’s be real, the “odds” of the newsies against the newspaper men were slim, and Race Track took pride at possibly being one of those variables that could change the outcome for the newsies. A small blossom of confidence grew in his chest as he continued.

“Say, we’ve been carrying overweight long enough, and it’s just about time we were getting some of the odds in the betting.” Race Track paused as he did quick math in his head. “There was a 75 to 1 shot that we was going to win this here fight.” To put that in perspective, most horses who win have an average of 3 to 1 odds. A 75 to 1 odds horse is what we would call a “long shot” and “underdog.” If you’re smart, you bet on the 3 to 1 shot horses. If you’re feeling lucky or stupid, you go with the “long shot.” 

Race Track’s eyes glimmered with the memory of having one of those said long shots he bet on win, and remembering the looks on some of the pudgy old racetrack goers' faces when the boy with the papes and the dirt on his face collected a whole $2. He couldn’t tell, but his confidence was beginning to rub off everyone in the room. “And we can do it hands down and no whipping if we keep our eyes skinned, and when the newsboys comes in first under the wire some of them guys sitting in the grandstand with shiny kicks and electric lights on their fronts will wish they had gone to the trouble to do a little arbitrating.”

There was some tittering among the crowds. The newsies looked at each other, some nodding, others their attention held by Race Track. It was incredibly how, without even trying, Race Track could keep everyone’s attentions with the colorful stories he told. And Race Track, being the ever humble wisecrack that he is, would brush it off and claiming he was “just observing.”

Race Track paused as he thought about that glorious day at the track where he showed all those hoity toity people up. Race Track would always take pride in surprising adults and rich people like that, which brought to mind another memory…

“But I wanna tell you about that Chief Devery.” Race paused as there was an angry murmur coming from his Brooklyn newsies. “We took up a collection last night and got enough money to hire a band to lead us over here. I went up to Chief Devery today to get a permit, and I says, just as polite as I knows how: ‘Mr. Devery, I wants to get us a permit, please, to have a brass band lead my Brooklyn men to the meeting tonight.’ And what do you think he said?”

Race Track glared at the crowd, almost daring them to answer the question, even though most knew what the answer would be, the newsies being the degenerates that they’re viewed as.

“He says: ‘Get out, you slobs.’”

Nothing makes Race Track more angry than being spit upon for something he had no control over. And maybe, Race Track thinks, this is what Kid Blink feels like when he sees something he doesn’t like. This overwhelming urge to finally do something about it.

“And I says, ‘Mr. Devery, don’t call me a slob. I’m trying to make my living. I ain’t so high in office as you, but some day I may be higher.’”

And Race Track firmly believed that. In some part of his mind and heart, he did believe that one day, he could make it out of the streets and never have to sell another pape in his life. He’s bet on worse odds than that. And part of him was fighting for that right. Not just for himself, but for every newsie who’s wanted something more.

“But he wouldn’t give up the permit, so we had to leave the band home.”

Silence. Race Track started to panic again, having the reached the end of that story. His mind started to race, thinking of other things that had happened after that, looking for a story to tell. He soon found one.

“Say, we struck six of those $2-a-day World and Journal fellows in front of Dennett’s in Brooklyn this afternoon – you know Sinker Dennett’s place –"

At that, angry tittering and muttering filled the room. The worst thing you could be in the eyes of the newsies, besides Joseph Pulitzer, was a scab.

“And we shamed them into giving up their jobs.”

The Manhattan newsies reacted with wonder and awe. It really showed the power that the Brooklyn newsies had: that they could make scabs forget their traitorous ways and join the strike. Every newsie in that room today gained even more respect for Race Track Higgins, even more than they already had, which was quite a lot.

“They took their Journals back to Barber Clark and said they wasn’t going to help any paper do up a lot of boys.” Race Track paused as he scanned the crowd. Then, gesturing to them, in an almost booming voice, “Now, wasn’t that square?”

And at that, the room broke out into applause. Race Track smiled to himself. He was finally getting somewhere, to a point where he could wrap up the speech. He was doing what he came here to do: to convince the newsies that this was the right thing to do. That this fight was worth fighting, and that they had a chance to win. He said just that.

“I think we’ll win this fight all right!”

More applause and a couple whoops. The newsies generally quieted so they could hear the rest.

“I ain’t made 20 cents this week, but I can stand a heap of that and so can all the Brooklyn boys. Don’t touch Worlds or Journals until they give us a decent deal. We’re putting them out of business fast, and they know it!”

The applause and cheers were deafening, and Race Track felt a certain lightness in his chest. Kid Blink hopped up on stage and clapped his shoulder and shook his hand. Shouts of “Yeah Blink!” and “BROOKLYN” were heard. And Race Track? Well, he was surprised and delighted with the effect he had. He remembered how nervous and scared he was at first, and now he saw the direct effect he had on the newsies.

Maybe he could get used to talking in front of people.

He just hopes it will all be worth it in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my Newsies Secret Santa present, so Baden, I really hope you enjoyed it! And everyone else, I hope you enjoyed it too! I'm sorry it's probably all over the place, this is my first fanfiction that I've ever published, so I'm a little nervous putting this out there. Kudos and comments are always appreciated! My tumblr is fuckin-georg so if you wanna say hi say hi! Thanks for reading!


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